


Autumn and the Time that Travels

by elle_nic



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Cute, F/F, Fluff, Happy Ending, Romance, Swearing, Time Travel, Trace amounts of Angst, andy is a fucking idiot but we love her, fiction&femslashevent, its sad boi hours so i wrote this, young!miranda for a little while
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 12:27:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20639162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elle_nic/pseuds/elle_nic
Summary: Inspired by introverted_xtrovert and this image: https://www.pinterest.com.au/pin/210965563767998686/?lp=true





	Autumn and the Time that Travels

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd.

_Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,_

_Old-Time is still a-flying;_

_And this same flower that smiles today_

_Tomorrow will be dying._

\- Robert Herrick, _To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time_

.oOo.

Andy had made a lot of mistakes in her day, but this one took the fucking cake. The little store she had gotten into (through not entirely legal methods) had all the signs of a haunted house. It had the run-down exterior, the creaking wood, the freaky jars with stuff that Andy didn’t want to dwell on… But was dared to take some photos with her old, beat up camera that her grandmother had given her a few years ago. It was old and the photos it took were not nearly as HD as the new camera models but… Andy liked it, she supposed.

“Shit,” she hissed as she tripped over a bit of moth-eaten rug, bumping spectacularly into a tall with all manner of strange, colourful jars. One fell, and in hindsight, Andy should’ve realised it only took one to mess her up. The purple was actually very pretty, Andy thought, looking down on the jar’s contents on the rug. It was still very pretty when its started to glow, but unless it was glowstick juice, Andy saw no reason for its iridescence. She had just a moment to panic before she felt like she was pressed into a single point in space, moving surely through time.

Her entrance to wherever she was soundless, but Andy felt everything in her body from her marrow to her brain to every strand of muscle and each organ. It was every biology class she’d had in high school compressed into an emotion. Opening her eyes finally, she saw the storeroom she was in and was underwhelmed by its sparseness save several brooms, an old bin and a few boxes (full of webs and dust and forgotten books). The books were marked with numbers and letters in some sort of code that Andy recognised as being vaguely university-esque.

“What the fuck,” she whispered, glad that she could no longer feel her whole throat and every bone and cartilage and muscle ripple as she could a moment before. Her voice was too loud for her ears yet, but she was feeling pretty good considering the batshit crazy situation she was in. Beside her shoe (a plain leather boot) she saw a blog of glowing purple and figured she’d leave it be for now. She had photos to take and this would make for a crazy story.

She moved slowly to the door, glad to see a handle that she could pull. She waited just a second for any noise on the other side, then turned the knob. It opened to a well-lit, linoleum hallway. The window on the other side of the narrow passage showed an afternoon sun, becoming golden with the later hour. Andy wondered if she was dreaming, knocked out by one of those jars, because it had been early morning when she had entered that old, abandoned shop.

She looked left and right, saw no one, then slinked out of the small supplies closet she was in and decided to head right. Her camera tapped out a happy beat against her chest, chummy for an adventure. Andy admired its enthusiasm, but was still trying to piece together what in the fresh hell was going on. She continued walking until she met more doors, double doors this time, leading to a thoroughfare that looked exactly like a university’s. So, she marked in her head. She was in a university, or a tertiary education facility either way. There was no one around, but she could hear some noise a little far off.

She made a sensible decision and headed for the noise, hopeful that maybe she could get some answers. One of those trophy cabinet displays caught her eye on her way down the empty hallway. She held up her camera and snapped a shot of the winking gold in the afternoon light from outside, and some of the golden hued newspaper articles of importance held within the glass case. She smiled down at her camera, excited to develop the film at some point. When she looked up she actually read what was on the trophies. Her smile fell.

They were design trophies. Game design, interior decorating, book cover art, clothes. All of them were design, but that in itself was not what had her jaw on the floor. Underneath ‘Current Champion of Design in Garments’ was the name Miranda Priestly. Still, not the most shocking detail. The current champion was Miranda, but the year said 1975. Every other article in the case boasted headlines from 1975 or 1974. All of them. The mid-fucking-seventies.

Now, Andy was never prone to panic. She was slow to hysteria (unless Miranda was involved) and Miranda was somehow, unbelievably, inconceivably, involved. And if Andy were a believer of the unreal, and she was to an extent, she’d say she’d managed to stumble right into a decade where she wasn’t even born yet. If she had the maths right, her sister had just been born somewhere in Michigan, and her parents were making their move to Ohio.

“No fucking shit,” she huffed. So, glowing goo and old abandoned apothecaries were not to be trusted.

“You,” a voice called from her right. She turned quickly, seeing a well-dressed young man with a head full of wild coiled hair and big glasses common to the seventies. The neckline on his silver shirt was deep, going to his midsection and then tucked into flared black slacks.

“Yeah?”

He rolled his eyes. “C’mon, baby, we got work to do,” he said, looking her up and down. How familiar was that gesture?

“Oh, uh.”

“You _are_ one of the photographers for the dance, right?”

“Well, yeah, of course,” she bluffed.

“You didn’t get the dress code?”

She looked down at her black jeans, black booths and rusty sweater. “Uh, I was kinda held up today that I had to rush here. Had no time to get ready, but figured you guys would give me a hand?”

“Mhmm. Baby, you better hurry your ass over here, because we got people arriving in two hours and you aren’t dressed.

“Of course,” she said, hurrying over to him, her camera still in hand. “I’m Andy,” she said.

“You’re late, actually,” he returned. “I’m Miles,” he said after a beat, walking away from her towards more sounds. He walked through more double doors that were propped open, the sign above saying ‘Renagerie Hall’.

“This is Renagerie Hall but don’t bother saying the whole thing,” Miles advised, “Just call it Jerry Hall and people will know.”

“Got it.”

“Felicity, get over here, honey.”

A woman with similar proportions to Andy slinked over, hairband in her hair and slim glasses on her nose. She was in all black, and wore only winged liner on her eyes and maybe some lipbalm. Her dark hair shone prettily under the blue and purple lights being adjusted overhead.

“This is Andy, which I’m sure is short for something,” Miles said, looking to Andy.

“Oh, uh,” she stammered. Wasn’t she not supposed to not say her name? That’s what all the movies said. “Andréa, but like the French way which not many can pronounce right,” her mouth said without permission.

“Honey, this is a design school,” Miles condescended in a way that didn’t offend Andy. “We’ll manage a few vowels. Anyway, Felicity, our photographer was held up, so I’m told, so she had no time to get dressed before getting here. You’ve got something for her, I hope?”

“Oh, sure! Come with me,” Felicity said, grabbing Andy’s unoccupied hand and dragging her away from Miles who was already snapping orders at someone else. Andy was led to another hallway, then another storeroom of sorts, but one filled with clothes and shoes. Maybe a theatre closet?

“It’s all our old costumes that the design girls sewed, but they’ve all been washed, I promise,” Felicity said, her voice high and sweet.

“I trust you,” Andy said. Felicity blushed. The other brunette moved to rack of all black clothing and slotted though until a simple black dress with a bell skirt and an organza strip was pulled away and presented to Andy. She grinned at the simple article, glad that it wasn’t patterns and flared pants and heeled boots. Or a cowboy hat, Christ.

“There are some heels there, ones that the girls made and ones that are older or abandoned… Any of them should be fine, as long as they’re black. It’s what staff has to wear,” Felicity explained nervously. Andy nodded and moved to the folded change wall, glad for the barrier so she could change. Felicity told her to just fold her clothes and she’d find a spot for them before retreating out the doors, shutting them behind her.

Andy placed her camera on a long table then slipped from her rusty sweater, one similar to what Miranda had worn once, then her jeans and boots. She was grateful her bra would work with the dress, and even more so that she had bothered to moisturise the night before so her legs were smooth. The dress was snug around her bust and clung her waist, flaring out to her knees, the organza exposing some of her thigh through the material.

“Not bad, Sachs,” she muttered, looking herself over in the mirror. By the mirror, she spied a black, cloth headband and a pair of fake glasses, adorning them quickly, then smiling at her reflection after fastening her camera. If she wasn’t dreaming in that old shop, then she was glad she had a disguise for the fun little time jump she’d managed to pull. She vaguely remembered her third-grade teacher calling her “trouble personified”. _You weren’t wrong, Mrs Exley._

She folded her clothes and grabbed her boots, slipping into a simple pair of black heels that made her a few inches taller. Heading out of the door, she spied Felicity near by and caught her attention, gesturing to her clothes.

“Just on the spare shelf near the divider,” Felicity said. Andy nodded and went back into the closet to place her clothes down, making a note to grab them before she left. _Back to the future_, she snorted.

“You look great,” Felicity complimented, adjusting her glasses. “Now, Miles told me to tell you your duties tonight. Basically, we just want a few shots of the decorating and when the guests arrive you can get a few of them, too. He said that there was a kerfuffle with the film supplies, so if you can use some of your own then he’ll reimburse you.”

“Got it,” Andy smiled, lifting her camera and resetting the film with a spare the camera could hold, then snapping a shot of the ethereal lighting, which had been adjusted to a warm orange and pale-yellow combination. It looked like an autumn caricature as the light bounced off the polished floor boards of the dance floor and the strings of glass that looked like fiery tears hanging from the ceiling. Food was arriving under large cloches at a buffet table. Miles was by the food table giving strict order to who Andy could only assume were the waiters and waitresses for the night.

“What do you do, Felicity,” Andy asked, pulling her eyes from Miles, who was talking a mile and minute and with a no-nonsense tone that Andy had heard in Miranda a time or twenty.

“Oh, I’m an event organiser. It’s what my course it here, and there was an opportunity for a few students to organise the autumn grad dance. Paid, thankfully,” she added with a tired laugh. “It’s been amazing, but I’ll be glad day after tomorrow when all the cleaning and everything else has been tied up.”

“I bet,” Andy said, pulling up her camera to snap another picture of the dangling drops of autumn colour from the ceiling. “Were they your idea?”

“Yeah, I had something similar in my bedroom as a child. Makes a nice effect, I think, and is classier than a disco ball.”

“That’s true,” Andy remarked. “Nothin’ wrong with a boogie ball, though,” she joked. Felicity smiled at her, laughed quietly then excused herself to fix a few potted plants around the perimeter of the hall.

“Word of advice,” Miles said, appearing out of nowhere (much like her ex-boss), “have something to eat now, because you won’t get another chance later on.”

“Noted,” she said, turning her camera to capture a profile shot of the handsome man. His gold earring in his lobe flashed cheekily at her. He turned up an eyebrow (again, eerily familiar) and shooed her to the food to grab something. Travelling through time (or tripping balls, as she might _actually_ be doing back in that apothecary) was not very appetite inducing, as it turned out. She grabbed a little pastry and a scallop regardless and watched from the side as some jazzy, lowkey music began to wander through the room. She tapped her heeled foot to the beat as she snacked lightly.

“Alright,” Miles announced, louder than the music, “We have guests arriving in two minutes, so get ready and good luck.”

He wasn’t lying either, Andy realised, as well-dressed young adults began filling the room from both entrances. They were all dressed to the nines and Andy couldn’t help but snap photos as men and women alike glided in in their finery. She was glad to announce that even semi-formal wear in the seventies was pretty normal. She chuckled to herself, spent her time absorbed in the people around her and capturing their night with flashes of orange and scallops and silk. When the music had amped up to a comfortable bump, Andy decided to wander about the room, watching and photographing and smiling.

“Miss, would you like to dance,” asked a voice. Andy turned, surprised to see a handsome young man looking to her with a hand out in invitation. His face was young and his eyes bright, even in the subdued light of the ball. She smiled and held up her camera, taking his photo, capturing his pretty face. “I’m on the job, I’m afraid,” she said. He nodded in understanding and waved at her as she turned and kept walking. She had never spent much time photographing people before, especially nod in crowds like this, but she liked how she was just a fly on the wall for the most part, witness to a night of celebration and cataloguing it to remember for years to come. How special was that?

“You’re finally here,” she heard from her right. She turned to see three young women well-dressed in shades of blue and green. But there, just by the potted plants, and bathed in the autumnal shades of light, was a vision that took Andy’s breath. Dressed in red silk, off the shoulder neckline and pleated skirt, was Miranda Priestly, decades younger and shades blonder. She was smiling.

Andy didn’t even realise she was lifting the camera to take a photo until it had happened, and she had caught the eye of her old (but terribly young) boss. She was glad for the black dress code as she melted back into the crowd, taking photos numbly, mechanically as her thoughts whirled around like pegged laundry in a windstorm. Miranda had curled blonde hair, and a smile of radiance and eyes that were still so grey. She wore the same style of dress when she was older, and Andy wondered guiltily if she did so to remember when she was younger. She had never stopped being beautiful, but self-perspective was fickle even for people like Miranda Priestly.

She managed to float around, just out of reach of Miranda’s sight for most of the night, well-hidden in the darker corners of the hall and in the bodies that were dancing on the polished wood floors. Miles had been right, she had realised, when she went to buffet table and near nothing was left from the piles of food earlier. No servers were walking around with platters of food anymore either, but Andy didn’t think she could eat. She never felt more out of it then that moment she saw Miranda in 1975 when she was born in 1980. When she saw Miranda, who could not be older than twenty, maybe twenty-one. She was younger than Andy, technically. Or Andy was negative years old? Timey whimey…

“Felicity said you came this way,” a sweetened voice said behind her. Andy blinked and turned. “She didn’t tell me your name,” Miranda said, her cheeks flushed from the excitement of the evening, no doubt.

“Call me Rea,” she said quickly. Andy wanted to smile at the bright exuberance that she had never seen in Miranda, but she was mourning. What had her career done to her that she had to bury this part of her to succeed? How cruel of the world, Andy thought morosely, to snuff such sprightliness.

“I’m Miranda,” she said with a grin, and Andy realised she was being flirted with. She was years late, on that front… or was it decades early?

“I know,” she admitted. She knew. She _knew_.

“Dance with me, Rea,” Miranda demanded, and maybe Andy was passed out in a dusty old shop, dreaming of Miranda and what life would be like if she were early to the game. Maybe she really had been thrust into 1975. Either way, she was going to dance with this woman in red and blonde and light. How could she not?

“If you’d like,” she said, taking a step toward Miranda and the dancefloor.

“I would like,” returned the younger woman. She was guided to the centre of the floor, invited to place a hand on the trim waist covered in red silk, and one in the delicate hand in her own. They swayed, waltzed a little but stopped when Miranda laughed too hard at Andy’s poor attempt. Andy couldn’t help but snap another photograph of the woman, enchanted. They continued to sway after that, Andy getting the hang of the box step after another song.

"What a timeless thing," the brunette murmured, looking down at Miranda as they waltzed.

"What," the blonde asked, gliding effortlessly, because of course she could waltz.

"Your beauty," the woman says. The youthful face warms, and suddenly Andy realises that Miranda is leaning into her.

“Just one,” Andy warns. Miranda smiles in a way that is common with her older self. It is calculated and sure, and delightful under the sparkling drops of glass above them.

“One is enough,” she murmurs, kissing Andy soundly. Andy forces herself to pull away after several prolonged moments of soft pressure on her mouth. It’s such a soft mouth, and somehow Andy knows that it is exactly that soft in the future too.

“Come home with me, Rea,” Miranda says against her mouth, just a whisper of contact, but oh so distracting.

“One day, maybe. Ask me again one day,” she says, breathing in just once, then pulling back and smiling at Miranda tremulously.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Andy said, slipping away through the crowd and away from Miranda. She hears calls for Rea but Rea doesn’t exist outside that one kiss. Andy marched on.

“Here,” she says to Miles when she reaches him, pulling out a roll of film and handing it over in a rush. “There’s plenty of photos, and truly, don’t worry about repaying me for the film. It was my pleasure,” she says, not waiting for Miles to talk to her. “Tell Felicity that she did an amazing job,” she says behind her shoulder as she runs as fast as she can in her heels. Miles, understandably, doesn’t react in time before she’s gone. Only a reel of film in his hand to prove she had been there at all. Andy ignored the echo of “Rea?” as she clopped back to the storeroom she appeared in, nothing exceptional about it apart from the soft purple glow. She took a deep, heaving breath before toeing the goo.

She waited a moment again when she returns to the future, felt _the most_ for several minutes, then she was moving. She was clopping without fear on the old floorboards of the absurd little shop, glad to see it was still mid-morning. She raced to the back of the shop, then the wire fence where her backpack was. She slipped through the small gap, glad to not nick herself or her – Felicity’s – dress as she made a hasty retreat. Months working as Miranda’s (the future one, not the one that kissed her in the middle of an autumn themed ball) assistant has trained her to race blocks over to a subway. She got out of the old district she’d been adventuring in and rode all the way to the Upper East Side.

She snapped photos of Central Park Station and the people there milling about. She snapped photos of the actual park as she walked along it toward her end goal. She turned onto 73rd and walked to the townhouse that she had been to many times before, never for something so important. She looked down at herself as she stood on the doorstep. Her hair was still in its headband, her fake glasses were still on. Her dress and shoes were exactly as they were when she had left the autumn grad ball in 1975. Her camera was still hanging around her neck, patting her chest comfortingly.

She ran the doorbell. Miranda answered.

And Andy hadn’t noticed when she dressed herself that morning that her rusty sweater was the same design as Miranda’s had been when she was invited (forced) to Paris. Perhaps it was why she bought it in the vintage second-hand shop. It suited Miranda better, she thought, as she and Miranda stared at one another, grey eyes sparkling less with youth and more with shrewdness. Miranda was wearing her sweater. The sweater she had left in 1975 in that little closet room near the Jerry Hall.

“You- I-… _Rea_?”

Andy took her glasses off, and pulled the band out of her hair. Miranda gasped and stared more. Andy looked up at her from the lower step. Miranda eyes her dress, her shoes, her camera. “Impossible,” she whispered.

“Not nearly as much as you’d think,” she said quietly, the sounds of the city nearly drowning her out.

“But… _Nineteen seventy-five_,” Miranda said. Andy laughed desperately and wiped at her eyes. She had loved this woman for longer than she cared to admit, loved her deeper than time herself could touch.

“Ask me,” she begged, stood there in front of Miranda exactly as she did minutes and decades before. “_Please_ ask me.”

“Rea,” Miranda choked, pronouncing her old (new?) name with an ache born of years without ever knowing what became of the brunette she had kissed at her grad ball. “Rea,” she said again. “Come home with me,” she demanded. “Explain to me everything. Not in another three decades,” she urged at Andy’s silence. “Now.”

“I’d love to,” she said, stepping closer to Miranda. “You’re wearing my sweater,” she smiled.

“It’s been mine for three decades,” Miranda huffed, pulling her in and closing the door. “It’s my sweater,” she claimed.

“Keep it,” Andy laughed, looking into grey eyes that had dimmed in the decades she had been away. She would make them spark again, she hoped. “Keep it.”


End file.
